


I Like My Consulting Criminals Shaken, Not Stirred

by bottleredhead



Series: Bondlock Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Moriarty is my favourite toy to play with, No Romance, Q is a Holmes brother, but yeah, plenty of weirdness, which isn't really a ship at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:56:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty might be willing to trade one Holmes brother for another; another that is more fun to play with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like My Consulting Criminals Shaken, Not Stirred

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [AU Crossover gifset - by tunaphis](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17306) by tunaphis.tumblr.com. 



> I seriously have no idea what this is supposed to be. Inspired by a gif set on tumblr.

There's no indication that this day will be the day Q's life spirals completely out of control. Funnily enough, it starts out normally, with an empty tin of Earl Grey at Q-branch that notifies the Quartermaster of just how often Bond has been hanging around his lab when he wasn't off blowing up half a country or another under the pretense of a 'mission'.

It just so happens that Q is running the preliminary system checks when a funny little piece of code appears on his screen.

It's simple, easily translated Hex. The translation isn't so simple absorb.

_Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes._

Two words, over and over again. Lines and lines of the same two words, a name Q knows as well as his own, if not better since he's become Q and lost all connections to his real name.

And at the end is one word. It's entirely unfamiliar to Q, though it shouldn't have been with how often it was in the news only a week prior.

_Moriarty._

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Q enters the name into the MI6 database. His fingers tap impatiently as he waits for the results.

The huge screen in front of him fills up with search result after search result. _Break in at Tower of London. Suspect caught red-handed. Pentonville Prison not as secure as previously thought. Moriarty - a criminal consulting genius?_

It takes Q a total of three hours, twenty nine minutes and fifteen seconds to go through all the data that is available pertaining to Moriarty. By the time Bond strolls in to Q-branch, Q is nothing more but a seemingly frozen block of fear.

He knows he should move, say something, smile at one of his interns before they call in staff from Medical. He knows that he's been holding the same pose for hours, as still as a statue except for the minute movements of his fingers as he read his way from one file to another. He can also see one of his proteges give Bond a wild-eyed glance and nod towards Q, as if asking for help.

As Bond nears him, the agent's reflection in the mirror grows clearer.

"Q."

At the sound of his name, Q shudders lightly. It's a small movement, one Bond won't miss. It goes unchallenged.

"Bond," Q says, straightening. He doesn't turn around to face the ex-Commander, choosing to calmly eye the data on his screens instead. "I have a favour to ask of you."

Bond, who had a guarded expression as Q spoke, drops it in favour of a raised eyebrow.

Q's never asked him of a favour before. Which means nothing short of a catastrophe has or is about to happen.

*

Bond's footsteps on the concrete floors are lethally quiet on the floors of the underground, the cell that is his destination within view.

He steps inside carefully, observing the bare, empty contents of the place.

One word is scribbled over every flat surface available.

This is not good.

*

"I went to headquarters to see him but they'd already had him transferred."

Q sighs, wanting nothing more than to rip his earpiece out and hurl it at the screens in front of him. Bond continues talking, unaware of the damage he's wrecking.

"The strange thing is, only one word's written all over his holding cell."

"Alright, thank you Bond." If his words sound choked, Bond doesn't comment on it.

"....Sherlock."

Q disconnects the call with a trembling finger.

*

The flat is easy enough to find, located in the seedier, cheaper part of London where dead-beats and struggling income earners reside. The pale moon is half-hidden between dirty-looking clouds, a night sky that seems to be as murky as Q's mood. He lets out a little laugh at the irony.

The door opens after a couple of knocks, a short man in a rumpled suit standing in front of him with a bottle of tequila in hand. The little of the apartment that Q can see seems messy, crumpled balls of paper littering the floor. An ash tray placed on the floor beside the door is overflowing with cigarette butts, as if someone frequently smokes while slumped against the wood of the doorway.

The man narrows his eyes at Q, as if trying to place a connection in his head.

Q doesn't give him a chance to react. Hands fastening on the other man's suit jacket lapels, the young Holmes shoves Moriarty further into the apartment. They trip over the ash tray, knocking it to the floor where the ash drifts across the carpet, wafting in black smoke clouds to block Q's nostrils with the foul smell of burned nicotine and hard alcohol.

"Tell me," he growls, voice rough, face contorted in anger and fear for his older brother. "Who is Sherlock to you?"

A little manic laugh escapes Moriarty, who doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact that he's being shaken roughly by a man almost twice his height. The hair on his head is falling loose from its carefully gelled back style, adding to the appearance of 'madman'. "Oh? Oh!"

The consulting criminal doubles over with laughter. It sounds like something you'd hear coming from a darkened hallway of a metal institution. "You're Sherlock's little brother."

Shivers run down Q's spine at the way Moriarty says Sherlock, like it's a prayer and a curse rolled into one hopeful, breathy moan of reverence.

It's obvious that the man is drunk off his arse. Then again, it could just be the insane in Moriarty coming out to play. He looms in close to the Quartermaster, eyes widening with a mirth that rattles Q slightly. The beady black eyes that stare at him seem almost...amused?

Q's grip on Moriarty loosens when a cigarette ash-dirtied finger runs over his lips with a sense of awe. The taste of ash on his tongue is revolting.

"You're lovely," Moriarty sighs, swaying towards the disgusted man. "Are you as brilliant as him, then?"

A wave off anger crashes over Q, renewing the fear that had spurned him to approach Moriarty in the first place. "Stay away from him, you tosser!"

A small, detached part of his brain wonders what Mummy would say were she to hear the kind of language he just used. _She'd probably be very cross_ , it rationalised.

Laughter. His statement is met with peals of happy laughter, not unlike that of an excited child's.

"Oh!" Moriarty crows. His eyes are wide and insane, amusement shining through his eyes brighter than the lit beacons of Minas Tirith. ( _Stop being such a nerd, Q_ , that detached part of him intones.)

"Oh, but isn't this precious. Pretty little Holmes." The words are accentuated by a quick stroke to the side of Q's face. The hand rubs against his stubble lightly before moving upwards to his mop of black hair, fisting around the silk-like strands.

"Precious, precious indeed." A giggle. "Oh, but I do sound like Gollum now, don't I?"

Q does nothing but narrow his eyes as Moriarty forces his head back to sniff his neck. He tenses.

Moriarty's face appears above Q's. "Mm. I like you, baby Holmes. I do. Maybe even more than I do your brother."

The hand in his hear releases him and he staggers back, eyeing the vile man for any signs of attack. Belatedly, he remembers the palm-recognition Walther in his breast pocket.

Almost as if he's read Q's mind, Moriarty tuts. "No, no, guns won't do at all, baby Holmes."

"Just stay away from my brother."

Moriarty's smile is that of a lion about to pounce. "Surely. But on one condition."

*

Bond doesn't panic when Q disappears from his lab in the middle of the day. He doesn't panic when the interns start panicking - Q hadn't left them instructions. He doesn't panic when he receives a message from M asking why he'd been investigating Moriarty.

He does, however, startle slightly when he finds the missing Quartermaster seated on his couch, sipping from a mug as if he belonged in Bond's flat at one in the morning on a Tuesday.

"Something the matter, 007?" Q asks, eyebrow rising when the agent pauses in the doorway and merely stares at him.

The question seems to snap Bond out of his haze. "Q. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The younger man's face is pale, hair standing in tufts as if its been pulled at, brown cardigan pulled and stretched. Q looks like he's been mugged.

"Bloody hell, Q, what happened to you?" Bond asks, crossing to where Q is seated with large, concerned strides.

Putting on hand outwards in the universal sign for stop, Q stands. He faces Bond directly, inches between them. "Bond. I asked you for a favour this morning. And now, I'm going to ask you for another one. It shan't be a troublesome thing, really."

"I don't understand-"

"You don't have to. I just need to know that you'll deliver a message for me."

Bond's brows furrow. "And why can't you do that yourself?"

Q's expression remains smooth, but Bond thinks he can see a hint of panic beneath the calm veneer he's trying to exude. "You'll come to know that soon enough. Just-" It seems to take every ounce of Q's will power to not break down in James bloody Bond's flat. "Please."

It's a single word, one that the agent would normally ignore. But coming from Q's mouth, it sounds like a dying man's plea. Bond can't help but want to put Q out of whatever misery he's feeling.

"Tell him. Tell him, James. You tell him."

It's the first time the Quartermaster has used Bond's given name, and the importance isn't lost on him. "Tell who?" he asks, hoping to quell the desperation in the usually-refined man's voice.

Q focuses on Bond long enough to look him straight in the eyes, as if unbroken eye contact would cement Q's words into Bond's brain. "Tell Sherlock to stay away from Moriarty."

"I will. I'll tell him as soon as the sun rises come morning."

"No!" The panic in Q's eyes is palpable. "Now. Tell him now."

"But he'd be sleeping. That's what normal people do at this hour, you know. Sleep."

"Now, Bond."

And before Bond can react, Q walks out of his apartment, and little does the agent know, out of his life.

*

It's around one thirty in the morning when his phone beeps. Groaning mentally at having to extract his phone from the confines of his pocket himself seeing as John is asleep, Sherlock abandons his microscope with great reluctance.

On his screen is a simple message from a blocked number.

"I was told you tell you to stay away from Moriarty. It would do you well to heed this warning. -JB"

*

Later, several residents of Baker Street can swear they heard a very loud, very angry voice yell:

"Q, what the bloody hell have you done?"


End file.
